Not In One Day: Revisited (original from 1998)

When I was a child
I spoke and wanted,
cut and bled.

We’d mix our blood,
little children mixing blood
trying so hard
to stay connected
somehow.

We needed flesh and blood and proof,
you know?
proof
something to ground us
blood, basic, primal -
we were fixed together.

And, I was a girl
who sat on picnic tables
holding onto blood ties
from childhood
trying to call it up from under the years.

The blood
I’d try to call the blood up
I would listen and wait
until I felt it begin to run
fast and thick through my body
all so he would kiss me
on the picnic table, and he would.

This thrilled me.

I remember culminating
all blood later
I knew that I was female
we were all bleeding
no need to cut ourselves anymore.

I think I must’ve stitched myself
to boy’s insides
and let my rushing red
eat away at hormones and hearts.

I might have been careless.

I played the basic picnic table game
until I somewhat resented myself
and then I discovered moments of silence
beauty elevating clarity
with sick hair pulling bright hours.

Watching trains pass
I sat on the tracks playing chess
with the dirty river
and called to myself
from the ruined box cars
cracked cement, and fields of clover.

But, in between this time and the other
I sat on my roof
with the light from my bedroom on my back
naming stars
scribbling most pretentious things
into red red journals
and exalting in a kingdom
that was not being built in one day.